


Oi Plank-er!

by Plankwieldinghuntys



Category: Blur
Genre: Communism, Explicit Sexual Content, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 19:06:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7857493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plankwieldinghuntys/pseuds/Plankwieldinghuntys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the boys' tour bus breaks down en route to Bucharest, a mysterious elderly and incredibly wealthy dowager takes them in to her humble home...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oi Plank-er!

The Starshaped tour, 1992  
“Nope,” called Dave from the back of the tourbus. “We’ve definitely fucked it!”  
The lads groaned. This was the sixth time this month, “Bessie” had broken down and with four hours to go before they were meant to go onstage in Bucharest, they couldn’t have been faced with a bigger nightmare.  
Alex, already day drunk on Lidl champagne, lit up a precarious Marlboro straight and watched with homoerotic fascination as Dave fiddled with the oil stick. He loved a man who was good with motors, and Dave certainly knew how to rev his.  
He was broken from his morbid daydreams by Ifan, storming on to the scene and throwing open the hold.  
“Come on lads, don’t hang about,” he barked. “We’re gonna have to hitchhike.”  
Damon cussed under his breath as he heaved the stage equipment out of the bus, sweat glistening on his Adonis-like forearms. It was alright for Ifan, so sturdy, strong and muscular, but for four underfed chainsmoking alcoholics from Lewisham, it would be an uphill struggle.  
Graham meanwhile had other ideas, head buried in the local newspaper. Damon could spend all day watching his submissive little face ponder over the facts of life.  
“OI, Grem, what’s the matter?” he asked, longing to hold the lost little lamb in his arms.  
“Wanted,” Graham read aloud. “Elderly wealthy dowager seeks four or more male companions for good times and maybe more. Accomodation included.”  
Ifan snatched The Bucharest Star from Graham’s child-like grasp and got out his brick like Nokia 101.  
As he secured the offer, Graham smirked to himself. Ifan certainly knew how to push a few buttons to get the boys what they wanted, he’d do anything to make them happy. To give them pleasure.  
Sure enough, within the hour the boys were in a pony and trap taxi cab, heading for the stately home of the mysterious and lonely dowager…

Agatha, who’s whole family had allegedly been wiped out by the Bolshevik Army in 1917, greeted the lads at the door, a pink mole stole hanging on her petrified-wood-like body, cigarette holder in her claw like grasp.  
“Dah-lings!” she cooed. “Welcome to my humble home!”  
One by one she clutched the lads and Ifan to her boney chest, her lip hair so thick and bristling with each cheek kiss, Groucho Marx would have felt inadequate. She paused as she embraced Alex, feeling the beginnings of a semi against her varicose-veined thigh, and smiled to herself. He smelled of cheap champagne and hand jobs, her two favourite scents after Chanel No.5. She gave his balls a squeeze with a freshly manicured hand and felt him wince; this one would be fun to toy with.  
“Chives?” she enquired, beckoning to her butler. “Show these gentlemen to their rooms.”  
As they ascended the pink plush carpet covered gold gilded staircase behind the humble Chives, an ex-gulag worker, the boys took in the treasures of Aggie’s home. They’d never been in the lap of such luxury before and felt they could get used to this.  
One after the other they were shown to their rooms, until it seemed, there was only one left between Ifan and Damon.  
“I’m afraid this is the only guest bedroom left, m’luhd,” Chives explained. “But as you’ll see the bed is rather spacious.”  
The Tudor-era four poster with champagne-silk drapes and matching Egyptian cotton sheets certainly was big enough for two. Damon looked from Ifan to the bed and back again, beads of sweat beginning to form from his Germanic Adonis pores. Sure Graham was his one true love, but he’d always had a secret fantasy about older men and wondered if Ifan, who was currently checking the sealant on the windows and the mattress firmness should he have to make an accident insurance claim, felt the same way.  
His dirty thoughts were interrupted however by the dulcet tones of Chives who announced that the mistress of the house would like them to join her for some parlour games downstairs. He’d just have to wait until he had some time alone to act out his fantasies. Or would he?

Settled downstairs in the lounge, the boys enjoyed the spoils of Agatha’s decadent lifestyle. Chives served up Romania’s finest caviar and mixed cocktails, all whilst entertaining the lads with tales of how he survived Stalin’s first purge.  
“I want a sex on the beach, on the rocks!” Damon, who was draped across the antique red velvet chaise lounge, ordered, snapping his fingers, and making Graham blush.  
He thought back to the day they used to sneak off the tour bus to the beach in Orkney to frolic and fuck amongst the coves and his body shivered with indescribable delight. He had to find a way to make Damon his tonight.  
“Alright,” said Dave, sitting upright and rubbing his hands together excitedly. “Who’s for a game of bridge?”  
“Not me, grand-dad!” scoffed Agatha, perching in Alex’s lap and wrapping herself round his shoulders like a cat. “I want to play some REAL games! Games…of PASSION!”  
She blew a ring of smoke from her Cuban cigar in Alex’s face, making him blush and cough simultaneously.  
“Uhh,” started Ifan nervously, making for the door. “I think I have Kerplunk on the bus, I’ll go have a rummage –“  
Chives however beat him to it, locking the door before his perspiring palm could reach the knob, and escorting him firmly back to his seat on the Persian rug.  
“How about you make everyone another drink, Chives?” Agatha purred, stroking Alex’s face with a weathered paw.  
“Now look here!” cried Dave, standing up. “I don’t know what your game is but we have to go onstage toni-“  
“Onstage?” Agatha exclaimed, as Chives pushed Dave firmly back onto the sofa, brandishing his sawn off Glock 43. “Why, I didn’t know you were a troupe of entertainers! So entertain me then!” She took the gun off of Chives, polished the barrel and mocked Ifan’s broad brummie dialect. “’Kerplunk’..I’ll Kerplunk you, honey muffin! Chives! The game cupboard!  
She chuckled knowingly as Chives opened the oak mahogany dresser behind them and took a box down. Damon’s skin had prickled with heat and anger when she’d impersonated Ifan like that. How dare she?  
What was she playing at?  
“Buckaroo?!” exclaimed Graham, as Chives began setting up the intricate plastic donkey and its mechanical contraption.  
“Oh this isn’t just any game of Buckaroo, dah-ling!” cooed Aggie, lifting her glass of Moet Chandon to Alex’s mouth, laced with half a Viagra. “This is STRIP Buckaroo!”  
Every time the daft, yet oddly saucy, old bird said the word ‘buckaroo’, Alex could the blood rushing to his own ‘buckaroo’ and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand the sexual frustration. When she hopped off his lap, he snatched up one of the ornate cashmere boudoir cushions to conceal his burgeoning semi.  
“So boys,” Aggie purred, clapping her ancient talons together in delight. “You know how to play Buckaroo, sure, but let me explain the rules of STRIP Buckaroo…just so we’re all clear. You put your item on the donkey, normal as. If he kicks it off, you take off an item of clothing. If it’s a blue item he kicks off especially though –“ She smiled like the Cheshire cat who got the cream. “- you also have to perform a sexual act on whoever catches your eye.”  
Graham, panicking, started scanning the room for possible exits, having severe PTSD flashbacks of that game of Spin the Bottle at Stacey’s 13th birthday. Sure he could perform in private for Damon but in a room full of people? Would his cock be cut out for the job? Damon, noticing the wisp of a boy’s distressed face, was meanwhile growing intensely turned on. He got off on Graham’s pathetic submissive nature and usually tried to make him cry at least twice during oral. On the other hand, the thrill of potentially getting off with Ifan was also making him equally horny. He felt the elation of being at an all-you-can-eat buffet; tonight would be extremely satisfying. Alex was now incredibly drunk and hallucinating. This felt worse than that ket comedown in Croydon last summer but yet he was also intensely down to fuck. Had the old bat slipped something in his drink? At this point he was past caring if it meant he could tear that Issey Miyake s/s ’88 crepe dress from her tiny frame and ravish her willowy body. Dave, meanwhile, had only had half a virgin Shirley Temple and was already feeling the bends.  
“You can’t hold us here against our will!” he screamed, his contorted face putting Edward Munsch’s The Scream to shame. “Tell her Ifan! Ifan?”  
The weary tour manager stood at the French windows, staring into the 100 acres of Versailles-like garden from behind the lace curtains, lost in his thoughts. Sure, encouraging the young lads in his care into sordid sex games with an elderly woman clearly suffering from psychosis seemed wrong. But this could be a new bonding opportunity with the band. He didn’t always see eye-to-eye with the handsome little devils and this could be an excellent chance to explore their relationship, to explore their bodies…  
“Sit down, Dave,” he said, wiping a tired hand across his brow.  
“What?” exclaimed Dave, aghast. “What???”  
“Sit down and shut up!” barked Ifan. “As tour manager I command you to do so!”  
Damon’s eyes glistened with attraction at Ifan’s display of bravado. He was everything he looked for in an older man; domineering and commanding but not so attractive that he outshone Damon himself.  
The group sat around the plastic donkey on the Persian carpet, Chives manning the door, Dave staring at Ifan with hurt and betrayal, tears brimming under his eyes.  
“I’ll go first,” cooed Aggie, seductively leaning across Alex’s lap for a miniature blue plastic cowboy boot and hooking it onto the donkey’s tail. “Easy peasy, see!”  
Ifan was next, his thick sausage like fingers rummaging through the game tray. What would he pull out? The atmosphere was thick with sexual tension, body odour and the smoke from Aggie’s cigars. It was a blue sack. Damon took the opportunity to make a joke about blue balls and Ifan’s chubby cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He hooked it over the donkey’s ear as the whole room sat with baited breath. But nothing. A sigh of relief.  
Aggie nodded at Chives who shuffled his feet and then stamped for effect. The donkey bucked and Dave got the blue plastic sack right in the jugular.  
“ACK!” cried Dave.  
“AHA!” cried Aggie. “Top off, sunshine!”  
“This game is rigged!” cried Ifan, struggling to lift his Doomslayer shirt up over his rolls of neck fat.  
“He’s right!” exclaimed Graham, rifling through the game box. “All these pieces are blue!”  
Chives marched over and slapped the wisp of a boy across the face. Damon was in a state of elation, all his fantasies were playing out in front of him.. Graham being dominated, Ifan stripping off. Now all Ifan had to do was pick him and suck him off accordingly and he’d be in heaven.  
“Wellll, big boy?” Aggie purred, one hand holding her cigar, the other fondling Alex’s erection. “Who’s it gonna be?”  
Ifan’s vision blurred, both literally and figuratively, as he struggled to make sense of the red sweaty leering faces in front of him. Graham was already crying so he figured he’d be the easiest to get over and done with first. Gulping back a lump of anxiety flem, he turned to the sobbing lad.  
“Graham,” he stuttered. “Sorry about this, mate.” And with a flourish, stuck one of his meaty fingers into his mouth.  
Aggie cackled wildly, gyrating her clit against the rug in glee as the finger foreplay took place. As Graham continued to gurn, sucking on Ifan’s bratwurst-like digits, Damon became incensed. This was an outrage! Face prickling with rage, his hands curled into fists and all of a sudden he was knocking over the donkey and upturning the game box.  
“Oi you prick!” he yelled, slamming Graham in the jaw with a stiff upper cut, in turn snapping Ifan’s finger in half as it was still lodged in the boy’s gum.  
“YOU FUCKING IDI-“ Ifan began, but before he could continue, Damon had cut him off with an intensely passionate kiss.  
Ifan’s senses became enflamed as Damon’s dishwasher mouth took him to a whole new plain of sensation. He barely focused on the pain of his now bloody swollen ring finger, blocking out Graham’s screams of pain and Aggie’s howls of laughter, as the kiss enveloped him in a love and security he’d never found with any woman.  
“This is a better rush than the fall of the Berlin wall!” Aggie exclaimed with ecstasy, as she continued to slam her pussy to the floor.  
Alex’s erection was now of barge pole proportions and head swimming with excitement, he couldn’t stand watching her fuck the floorboards any longer. He took her frail hand in his and cupped her sagging breasts in the other.  
“Take me, Aggie!” he yelled, pressing their bodies closer together. “I need to be with you!”  
“Watch my arthritis, sugarlumps,” she squealed. “Sometimes my metal hip squeaks when I top.”  
Overcome with desire, Alex tore the clothes from her fragile frame, revealing the body of a lady who’d truly lived her life to the fullest. He hadn’t been expecting the nipple piercings or the ribcage tattoo of Trotsky, but he found they turned him on even more as he began to ravish her right there on the rug, his fingers tracing connections between the liver spots on her legs.  
“I gotta get outta here!” screamed Dave, wiping the vomit from his mouth and rushing to the French windows, violently rattling the handle.  
“Let him out, Chives!” chimed Aggie, straddling Alex and lighting up a fresh cigar.  
Chives had dealt with plenty of anti-regime dissenters in his time but none of them had been as irksome as this sniveling ginger idiot. He grabbed Dave firmly by the shoulders as he continued to scream and with one swift arm movement had thrown him crashing straight through the French windows, skimming along the croquet court and into the Michaelangelo’s David water feature.

With Damon and Ifan violently copulating to his right and Alex getting it on with Aggie to his left, Dave in pieces, Chives swinging a pair of leather nunchucks menacingly, his head ringing with the most pornographic of noises and nursing his swollen jaw, Graham felt distraught. This wasn’t meant to happen. Checking the ornate carriage clock on the marble mantelpiece he realized if he could stop the madness now they might just make it to Bucharest with some shred of dignity still intact. All he needed was an opportunity. Until then, he thought, he may as well pour himself another highball to drown his heartbreak.  
Meanwhile Damon and Ifan were taking their passionate romp to the next level. Damon made the executive decision to move their action to the red velour chaise lounge, almost passing out with elation as with every flourish of removed clothing, more of Ifan’s succulent heavy body was exposed, giving him more to play with.  
“Damon,” breathed Ifan, leaning over to whisper hotly in his lover’s ear. “You wouldn’t mind if I-“  
“Anything Ifan!” Damon exclaimed, eyes widening with excitement.  
“If I,” he continued, a little shyly. “Explored one of my deepest fantasies with you?”  
Damon’s eyes were practically rolling back into his head as Ifan sat up, ready to pounce, and then realized he’d left his treasured BDSM kit on the broken down bus on the Budapest to Bucharest highway. Quick thinking as Damon moaned against the red velour, he swept the Persian rug aside, almost tripping over Aggie and Alex’s coital bodies to rip up a plank from the floorboards with his bare hands, strength spurred on by his fit of passion.  
Damon licked his lips as Ifan’s middle aged spread hovered over him, plank in one hand and his manhood in the other.  
“Hit me,” Damon purred. “Hit me now.”  
Ifan didn’t need to be told twice as he brought the plank down across Damon’s head with such an almighty blow, it almost shattered on impact. Damon cried out in ecstasy.  
“HIT ME AGAIN!”  
“Damon, I –“  
“AGAIN!!!”  
Ifan was still trembling from a combination of the force from the first hit and the blood rushing to his balls. Did he have the upper body strength to deliver the same satisfaction from a second blow?  
As Ifan gathered his stamina, lost in the heat of the moment, Aggie had been watching the kinky display with an air of increasing excitement. Just as Ifan was about to bring the plank down upon his bruised and brooding lover, she suddenly wrenched herself away from Alex with such sharp force, she left her false teeth behind still clamped around his now flaccid cock as she threw herself between Damon’s glistening body and the hardwood plank.  
“GOD ALIVE!” she cried with a gummy grin. “THE PERFECT MIX-SH OF DOMINANCE AND SUB-MISHIN!”  
The old crone didn’t stand a chance as the plank sent her soaring across the room and through the French windows; medical experts later concurred she probably felt no pain and died almost instantaneously from the force of the smack combined with a triple full body orgasm.  
The sheer distress of Alex’s scream, half from lament for his deceased lover, who’s limp body lay strewn amongst the tulips beside a still unconscious Dave, half from the pain of her diamond studded plastic molars digging into his foreskin, broke the room from its reverie. Graham crawled under the pool table in solitude, rocking back and forth and clutching his third gin and tonic to his chest. He’d been making so much progress in his weekly sessions but he’d be back to square one of art therapy after the images he now had burned into his mind’s eye. Damon sat up, as if waking from a wet dream, spitting out three teeth into the palm of his hand, and grinning to himself.  
“Cor blimey!” he cried. “That was topper! Wasn’t it, Ifan? Ifan??”  
Ifan however was still clutching the plank mid-swing, frozen in horror at the atrocity he’d committed. His mind was boiling over with a mixture of panic, shock and lust. He looked from the plank in his hands to Damon to the dead body on the lawn and back again. What had he done? He couldn’t go back to Wormwood Scrubs, not again.  
Chives meanwhile had run into the garden and dropped to his knees in the grass, shaking his fists at the heavens and chanting a hail Mary. He hadn’t felt this much loss since the Red army had come for momma and poppa in the cold war. After the initial wave of sorrow had washed over him, his face reddened and nostrils enflamed with rage, and grabbing his trusty Glock 43, locked and loaded, he stormed back into the parlour to avenge his mistress’s death.  
“That’s it, punks!” he yelled, finger on the trigger. “You’ve had your fun! But I’M the one with the gun now! And I’m gonna shoot each and every one of you, one by one!”  
“IFAN! THE PLANK!” Damon screamed.  
Somehow, Ifan found it in himself to muster up one last wave of almighty strength and charged at the butler, plank drawn above his head and, with a war cry to rival Mel Gibson in Braveheart, he’d knocked the gun-toting Chives for six, sending him back across the room, through the garden and skimming along the golf course in the distance. The dexterity and force of the action sent Ifan into orgasm, hot semen shooting out across the lawn and hitting the still sleeping Dave square in the face, bringing him round.  
He shook himself awake sputtering.  
“WHAT THE HELL?” he screamed. “WHAT. THE. HELL??”  
He took in the dead bodies of Aggie and Chives, the sea of limp erections in front of him, the crying Graham curled up under the pool table, and continued to scream.  
“YOU’VE REALLY FUCKED IT THIS TIME YOU FUCKERS!” he roared. “DAVE BALFE IS GOING TO HEAR ABOUT THIS!”  
He couldn’t believe it. He’d seen his less conservative bandmates get up to some hijinks on this tour; pawning his stamp collection for 3g of mandy and a copy of the Beano, pissing in his tea, that time they’d tried to “crucify” him. But this was the last straw. The minute they got back to civilization, he was phoning Scotland Yard and having them all arrested. No, scratch that, DEPORTED. He knew a toff like Alex or an upstart like Damon wouldn’t last two seconds in Alcatraz. The thought of them rotting behind bars for life filled him with a gleeful almost orgasmic sensation. Oh how the tables were going to turn, lads!  
As Dave continued to rant and rave, Ifan, still clutching the plank, the shape of the woodgrain now imprinted into his palms, looked from the sobbing Graham to the smiling toothless Damon to Alex, who was frothing at the mouth on a Viagra comedown, and mopped his brow.  
“THAT’S RIGHT YOU WANKERS!” Dave continued. “YOU COULD SWING FOR THIS! I’LL MAKE JOLLY SURE OF IT!”  
“Ifan –“ Damon began but Ifan knew what to do.  
He walked out into the garden towards Dave, plank gripped behind his back, shutting the shattered French window doors behind him.


End file.
